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One Sunday night, at his grandparents’ house for dinner, our seven-year-old son briefly disappeared. We called his name and looked around until he was found: freshly showered, sitting in his grandfather’s wingback chair, his hair combed, a crocheted blanket in his lap, quietly reading an old Junior Bible. He wore a half smile, and I still don’t know if it was because of the family search or because his posture was performative.
If the latter, we rewarded him handsomely: “My, what a good boy!” his grandmother cried. “Look at you, the picture of piety!” I may have added.
